


Love is for Children

by Ice_Elf



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Past Non-Con, Post-Movie, past dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ice_Elf/pseuds/Ice_Elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything is over, Natasha goes to Clint. It is not because she loves him, but because she knows what it is like to be controlled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is for Children

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fabulous beta Black_Crystal_Draygon for the beta.

Love is for children: that was what she had said to Loki, and she knows it to be true. Children are innocent, they know little of the horrors of the world and so they can allow themselves to love without fear. They do not realise that sooner or later evil runs its course and destroys everything that is good in this world. 

Love is always one of the first casualties. Natasha learnt that when she was still a child herself, when she still believed that happy endings existed and that all the world’s problems could be solved with love. 

She had been innocent. She had been naive. She had been... foolish.

So when she goes to see Clint that evening, after all has calmed down and the endless questions have finally ceased, it is not because she loves him. She cares about him, yes, but only to the extent that she cares about the rest of her friends – and she has remarkably few of those. Whatever else people might say about her, Natasha is not lacking in basic human compassion. She knows what it is like to be used, to be powerless and subject to the whims of others, and she is certain that she can offer some form of comfort. 

Not words, the time for words has passed, and Natasha has never been good with them anyway.

She knocks on the door to his hotel room and waits, listening to the footsteps on the other side and the muted muttering. The wood is too thick for her to distinguish words but the general tone tells her that Clint is not pleased at being disturbed. For a split second, before he recognises her, his face mirrors his irritation and then it softens and he stands back to allow her entry. Natasha knows that she is the only person who would have been allowed access tonight. 

The room is very much like her own: stylish, classy, the best money could buy. Tony is hardly selfish with his money and he has delighted in offering the best accommodation New York has to offer. It’s... nice, but it isn’t her and she doesn’t think that she could ever be comfortable surrounded by such luxury. 

She turns back to where Clint stands by the doorway, watching her. When she catches his eye he raises his eyebrow and stalks forward, coming to a halt before her.

“Why are you here, Natasha?” he asks and for a moment she thinks he will turn her away whatever she says.

“I thought you could use some company,” she replies, and to make her meaning perfectly clear she takes a step towards him, tilting her head to one side and raising her eyebrows.

He looks tempted. His eyes certainly travel along the length of her body and Natasha knows that he wants her. It isn’t like they haven’t done this before, she knows how good they are together and that she always satisfies him. It’s a surprise, then, when he shakes his head and steps away from her.

“Not tonight,” he shakes his head. “Not with you.”

Natasha straightens up, her arms folding across her chest and her eyes narrowing. Clint has never had any problems with her before, few men do.

“What’s wrong with me?” she says, and she’s aware that she sounds annoyed but she isn’t used to being turned down and she doesn’t like it – especially not when it’s Clint who is rejecting her. No, that feels worse somehow. Clint knows her, so it isn’t just the way she looks that he’s not interested in. It’s _her_.

Clint can’t meet her eyes, they’re fixed on a spot on the wall somewhere behind her. He’s tired, his face is drawn and his eyes are dark with something she can’t quite name. Anger, and perhaps shame that Loki was able to control him, that he allowed himself to be controlled. Natasha knows how that feels. She knows what it’s like - to have little say in what happens to your body, the anger and shame, the feeling that the dirt cannot be washed away. 

She can see that on Clint’s face now, and she imagines that he can still feel Loki under his skin. It’s an unpleasant thought, and it’s one she wishes to eradicate. 

“It can’t be you,” Clint says finally, his voice strained. He finally glances at her, “I can’t hurt you Natasha.”

She understands. He needs to be in control tonight and that means he will want it hard and fast, that she’ll be aching when it’s done. She doesn’t care, so her only response is a short laugh. “You can’t hurt me, Clint. There’s nothing you can do that hasn’t already been done.” 

He looks stricken at that, tearing his gaze away. Natasha knows he’s trying not to think about that. Oh, he knows about her sordid past, knows what she’s done – what she’s been made to do – but even he doesn’t know all the details. If she allows him to dwell for much longer then he’ll refuse again, and there’ll be no convincing him. So she steps closer, wraps her hand around his bicep and gives it a quick squeeze.

“Clint, I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to do this. Better me than some girl who doesn’t know what she’s getting into and can’t fight you off if things go too far.” Even as she says it, Natasha knows that she won’t fight Clint off however far it goes. He needs this, needs to take control of something and if she has to sacrifice her own to allow it then so be it. Clint has done so much for her, he took a chance on her when no one else would, and she is never going to refuse the chance to do something for him.

Clint’s eyes slide back to hers and he nods, once. “Fine – but I want you to have a safeword.”

Natasha’s eyes widen for a second, then she shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary.”

Clint jerks away from her, leaving the path to the doorway clear. “Choose a safeword or leave, your choice, Natasha.”

His tone brooks no argument. She could try, but she would not convince him to bend. 

If she’s honest, his demand for a safeword fills her with relief. Natasha hates giving up control of her body, and while she will do so to get information out of an enemy it is always with the understanding that they have underestimated her and that she can fight them off if things do not go to her liking. 

It is different with Clint. He is stronger than her, but more than that, he knows all her tricks. Natasha knows that there is a possibility that she won’t be able to fight him off if things go too far and he clearly believes they will. She nods, and steps back into his space, reaching up to brace her hands on his shoulders and whisper into his ear, one word.

“Budapest.”

For a moment his eyes spark with amusement, then they darken, pupils blown with lust and desire. He grabs her wrists, his grip tight, bruising, and leans in to kiss her. It’s brutal, carnal and messy, and the hand on the back of her head stops her from pulling away. She doesn’t want to pull away though because this is right, this is what Clint needs and she can’t refuse it. 

His fingers bunch in her hair and Clint pulls her head back, lips kissing a line down Natasha’s jaw and neck, nipping at the tender flesh before coming to a halt in the hollow at the base of her throat. A groan works its way up to her lips, spilling forth into the soundless room. She aches to pull free of his grasp, to push him up against the wall and to ride him like she has done so many times before but she does not – cannot, will not – because she has promised him control. 

His hand falls from her hair, and he steps back, folding his arms across his chest as he regards her. Natasha stares at him, confused and bereft, and then takes a step forward because this cannot be over with so soon. Clint holds up a hand, palm raised and she stops, raising an eyebrow. 

“Strip,” his voice barks out, and the command sends a shiver down her spine. She shifts slightly, ignoring the sudden urge to slide a hand between her thighs and rub her fingers across her clit. 

Instead, she tilts her head to one side, shakes her hair loose and slides her fingers beneath the hem of her top. She slides it up, slowly exposing flesh and the lacy bra she wears beneath it, up over her breasts and her head. For a moment, she loses sight of Clint, but when she does regain it, his eyes are exactly where she would expect them to be. A smirk plays on her lips and she turns around, bending down to remove her shoes. The material of her jeans stretches tight across her ass, and she knows that Clint is watching her every move, enjoying the show. The thought brings her mind back to her own arousal, every movement makes the fabric of her clothing rub against her clit, and she’s hot and wet, achingly so and all from the sensation of Clint’s eyes on her body.

She straightens, and her body is pressed against another. Clint’s arms come around her body, grasping her hands and stopping them from unbuttoning her jeans. He grinds against her and Natasha can feel his erection against her ass. 

“I asked you to strip,” he says, his tone low and dangerous, “Not to give me a show.”

His hands release hers, sliding up her body to cup her breasts, thumbs slowly brushing over her nipples. She moans, deep and breathy, her head falling back to rest on his shoulder and he chuckles. His finger and thumb pinch together and he twists sharply and the moan turns into a cry that is half pleasure, half pain. 

Then his hand tangles in her hair once again, the other sliding to the small of her back and giving her a small push. She steps forward, and allows him to steer her towards the bed. Her knees buckle slightly as she reaches the edge and the slightest push sends her sprawling onto the covers. 

For a moment, she freezes, remembering exactly why she hates this. Her choice is freely given though, and she will not rescind it. Then his hands land on her hips and he drags her back towards him, leaning over and grinding his erection into the crease of her ass. 

He flips her over, fingers digging into her hips hard enough that they will leave bruises. Tomorrow morning, Natasha knows that her body will ache and that she will be decorated by so many of Clint’s marks. She stares up into his hungry eyes, and watches as he lowers his head to press a bruising kiss to her lips. Pushing herself up on one elbow, she leans into the kiss, desperate for more but suddenly she is bereft and a hand against her chest prevents her from seeking out more. 

“Stay down,” he orders, hand skimming across her belly to the waist of her jeans and easing them down her legs and letting them fall on the floor beside the bed. Lying there, in just her underwear, Natasha feels more exposed than she has in a long time. Clint is watching her, almost as if he can see through the thin cotton and lace. Slowly, he lifts a finger and draws it along her stomach and down, sending a shiver through her. 

“Don’t move.” He presses down, his finger flexing against her clit and she bites back a moan. Her pleasure must show on her face for he chuckles and leans down across her body to whisper close to her ear. “You like this, don’t you.”

His breath raises goosepimples against her skin and she leans away from it.

“You’re so wet,” and he slides his hand beneath her underwear, rubbing his finger against her clit. She tilts her head back, groaning as pleasure ripples through her. His other hand slides over her belly, cupping her breast and massaging the nipple between forefinger and thumb. Then he steps back, pulling his hands from her and she mewls in desperation, wanting to feel his hands on her over-sensitive skin once more. She’s hot, and her underwear feels so constricting. Then Clint is once more beside her, lifting her from the bed and standing her before him. His hands slide behind her and unhook her bra before sliding it off her arms.

It falls on the floor and Clint reaches out to press his hands against Natasha’s breasts, cupping them and squeezing them gently. His fingers slide down her body, lingering at her hips before hooking around the sides of her lacy underwear and pulling them down. Natasha gasps as the cool air brushes against her, and she closes her eyes, swaying slightly as Clint’s hands drift across her skin, along her body and down her arms to lock around her wrists. 

His fingers dig into her skin as he lowers her back down onto the bed, nails pressing against her pulse point and they’ll leave their mark tomorrow, tiny crescent shaped indentations. She finds that she doesn’t mind. Clint’s marks are different to those that have been left before because they are real, they are true. They are not simply the marks of passion that others have made in a desire to claim her, because she is Clint’s. Until such a time comes when her ledger is clean and all debts have been erased, she owes Clint, and she needs to find ways to repay him. 

He leans over her then, pressing his lips against hers, biting down on her bottom lip and drawing it into his mouth. One hand bunches in the sheets beside her head while the other kneads her breast, thumb flicking across her hard nipple. He is pressed tight against her, grinding his erection against her cunt. She longs to arc up, to guide him into a position that would increase her pleasure. 

But she has promised him control and she intends to keep her word. 

Clint’s fingers skim across her belly, dipping between her legs to finger her clit and then lower still, slipping inside her. Natasha cannot help but cry out now, the sound ripping through the quiet of the room. Her head slides back and she closes her eyes as his fingers press just _there_.

He chuckles and his lips slide from hers, brushing across skin to suck the lobe of her ear into his mouth. There are soft nips to her flesh and then he pulls away, his breath cool against flushed skin.

“I told you not to move,” he says, his eyes sparking with a challenge that she cannot refuse.

“You expect me not to move when you’re doing thaaaah...” she doesn’t finish, the word falling apart on her lips as he flexes his fingers inside of her. Her eyes roll back in her head and she struggles to regain control of her breathing. To stop the heavy gasps that burst from her lips and replace them with something that is a little more conducive to speech. Once that equilibrium has been reached, she turned her eyes back to Clint.

He smirks at her. “Careful how you speak, Natasha. I might decide to send you away.” 

Natasha knows that he wouldn’t. He is far too gone to end this so early and without satisfaction. She remains silent though, allowing him to maintain his illusion. It’s more than an illusion though, and she knows it. Here and now she would do anything for Clint, were he to ask for it. 

He pulls his fingers from inside her, trailing them up across her clit and rubbing, firmly, insistently until she tilts her head back, her mouth falling open in a wordless moan. Then Clint pulls back completely. She rolls her eyes forward, narrowing them to study his face, searching it for any sign that he might be backing out. There was none, just a pure, unrestrained hunger. She’s seen that look in men’s eyes before, knows the effect she has on them but never once has she felt this amount of satisfaction at putting it there. 

Clint leans down and caresses her cheek, running his thumb across the line of her jaw, and he smirks. That is the only warning he gives her, perhaps the only warning she needs, before he pushes himself inside her. 

She moans and her eyes slide closed once more, shutting out the sight of Clint’s face looming above her, his pupils blown with lust and his lips curving upwards in a slight smile. He rocks his hips forward, burying himself deeper inside her. 

The pace he sets is fast and brutal, but it isn’t selfish. So many men are, taking what they can and giving nothing in return. Not Clint though, he knows just how to angle himself so that he hits the right spot, knows just when to drag his fingers across her nipple or her clit so that he provides her with the most pleasure.

But she is not doing this for pleasure alone, although it is a relief that he allows it. 

The knowledge that Clint had been compromised had been the spur that had led her to take up Fury’s cause. There had been no need for any second thoughts, nor any need to elaborate on the dangers of the mission. The urge to wipe clear her history, to repay Clint for giving her a second chance had been overwhelming, and all Natasha had known was that she had to take this mission – to recover Clint or die trying. 

It wasn’t love but a favour owed, a favour that she still owes, will never stop owing. 

So if she holds onto him a little tighter than she normally would, if she digs her fingers into his back and presses closer to his chest so that she can feel his heart beating, it isn’t because she loves him. It is only because she is relieved that he is alive, and himself again. 

And if she lets him push her down into the mattress, his fingers digging into her shoulders, it’s only because she knows he needs to release some tension. She owes him so much, and this is just another way of repaying him. 

When she comes, his fingers sliding across her nipple wrenching her orgasm from her and a word on her lips that is almost his name, her body tensing around him, fingers buried deep within the sheets - when she comes, it is almost a relief, but that too is mired in disappointment because it is too soon. She is not quite ready for it to be over just yet. She breathes deeply, her body slick with sweat and her heartbeat thudding in her chest until - only moments later, really, but it feels like hours – he follows suit. 

He arches his back, tilting his head back and crying out, a long mumbled sound that Natasha doesn’t even begin trying to decipher. She can’t, because she has some idea about what Clint might have said and she’s not ready for that. 

Clint pulls himself from inside her, rolling onto his back and sucking in deep, gasping breaths. He’s still so close to her, pressed up against her and it’s suddenly too close, too stifling and she knows that she has to get out of there. 

She rises, pushing away the covers and sliding out of bed, intending to collect her clothes quickly, quietly and leave before any more can be said. She needs to gather herself together before she can face him again.

He reaches out, grabbing hold of her wrist and she turns to look at him. The darkness is gone from his gaze now, but his emotions are still guarded.

“Stay,” he murmurs, and for a moment she is tempted. Then she shakes her head, pulls her wrist from his grasp and continues dressing. She knows that he watches her, even if she tries to ignore it, and it’s a relief when she steps out into the empty corridor and takes a deep breath, free of the maelstrom of emotion that had risen the longer she had stayed in that room. 

She glances down the corridor, towards her cold, empty bed and almost regrets leaving. She knows that she could turn, that Clint would welcome her in a heartbeat, but she doesn’t.

She cannot stay, for that would seem too much like love and this – this was never about love.


End file.
